


a tale of gay boyfriends and jock straps (AKA dave strider's life really sucks)

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boyfriends, High School, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:05:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"your name is dave strider and boy does your life fucking suck."<br/>this is a story of stupid gay boyfriends and experimentation and crying teenage boys and high school sucking as much as it actually sucks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a tale of gay boyfriends and jock straps (AKA dave strider's life really sucks)

**Author's Note:**

> so i wrote this fic based off a [list of headcanons](http://crockerbot.tumblr.com/post/35803537264/dave-strider-with-braces-dave-strider-with) i wrote about dave. so uh yeah. i wrote it in two hours and it's kind of terrible so yeah enjoy. also i apologize for the shitty editing and it's probably in awful format and i don't feel like changing the pesterchum text or whatever.

your name is dave strider and boy does your life fucking suck.  
\--  
in the fifth grade you were given a mouth full of metal and crushed dreams for your birthday. you mean, it's not like your bro purposely signed you up to the "my middle school career will consist of getting tripped in the hallway" committee on the day before your birthday. he probably just forgot it was almost your birthday. or something like that. you had chosen the color red for the bands they put onto the metal obstructions on your teeth and your brother made fun of you for picking the same color as your pesterchum handle. and the sleeves of your shirt. you punched him in the stomach and fractured your pinky finger. the first thing they made fun of you for when you got to class the next day was the tiny splint on your finger. the braces were just the icing on the cake.  
\--  
only girls wear makeup. however there's a difference between wearing makeup to hide your girl pimples and wearing it to hide the brown fucking blotches that show up whenever you go in the sun. you've always had freckles. it's not a new development. it's just that you once overheard that stupid alyson with her stupid pretty blonde hair and her stupid beautiful green eyes saying that she hates freckles on guys. it's not like you care or anything. rose said they add a bit of a child-like quality to your otherwise stoic face. you glared at her over webcam and then sulked into your pillow. because you definitely don't care.  
\--  
the first time you met john egbert in real life he hugged you and then commented on how broad your shoulders were. you believe his words were something along the lines of "dave!!!! your shoulders are so broad! i bet a lot of girls like that!! hehehe!" and your face went stark red. egbert's eyes got as big as his fucking overbite and he gnawed on his lower lip. he made some sort of disgusting choking snorting noise that made you take a step back before laughing his ass off. for the rest of the week he compared you to lil cal and asked where he put his hand to make you talk.  
\--  
your bro took you to see titanic at the little movie theater up the block that always showed movies that hadn't been in theaters in ages. you sat in the second row. you remembered rose and jade telling you about what a tragic love story this movie was. you scoffed at the idea of something as stupid as a boat sinking making someone cry. you were wrong. at a certain point your sobs became too loud for even the middle-aged single women who came to the movie. you were asked to leave the theater, to which you replied "are you laughing at me? is that what you're doing?" the man turned to your brother and asked him to leave "with your daughter. immediately."  
\--  
your best friends can all sing. more or less, that is. even your bro can stay in key and belt out an '80s rock ballad when he needs to. john adds certain elements of his voice into his piano tracks, and they always make you cry. rose sings like an angel and jade is absolutely perfect for the 'bah bah bah's in sweet caroline. this is where the plot twist comes in. your voice is a constant monotone. you try not to let that disgusting texas twang, that everyone around you seems to have acquired, effect your voice. and it doesn't. until you start singing. when you go out for karaoke, your brother signs you up to sing the most terrifyingly cowboy hillbilly songs in existence. this signifies the arrival of not only the twang, but that awful crack when you hit anything higher than your normal speaking range. your brother mocks you in the audience, his shades lifting up just to wipe off a stray tear. somewhere within the process you realize he's been filming the whole thing. somehow you are too lazy to even attempt to stop him from sending it to your friends. you guess it doesn't really matter. except for when fucking egbert sends you a message saying  
'EB: wow!! you sound just like billy ray cyrus!'  
that's when you draw the line.  
\--  
you are dave strider. you are dave fucking strider, the man of little expression and yet a shit ton of confidence. you take one step into that friday's bathroom and you freeze. there are a shit ton of dicks in that room and something about that makes you anxious. like, old man dicks, little boy dicks. you probably couldn't find one similarity between all the dicks in this room. somewhere in the back of your mind you have the fantasy of lining up all the people in this bathroom and comparing their dicks. there are four urinals and two stalls. there are two people at the urinals, which means that if you try to take a urinal, you'll be standing next to one of them no matter where you go. and their dicks will be right next to you. the stall is the next choice but then you'll be expected to either sit or shit and you don't really want to do either. you walk over to a urinal and unzip your pants and pull out your junk and you can't pee. you can hear other people peeing and the thought should relax you but you are so on edge. you're not even turned on. just uncomfortable. so many fucking dicks. you shove your cock back in your pants and head for the hills. you can pee at home.  
\--  
nic cage's stupid fucking face is on your television screen. yet you can't find the strength within yourself to turn it off and go back to whatever you were watching before (it was cake boss. fucking jersey comes up with the best shows). you are faintly reminded of the fact that you have a best friend who would totally mock you if he could see you right now. your knees are pulled up to your chest and you're just. you're watching national treasure. willingly. because this movie is the fucking bomb. who would even think about stealing the declaration of independence. a fucking badass, that's who. your brother comes slamming through the door with fast food and you flip the channel to a mexican game show. "nice choice bro. 'vas o no vas' is the shit."  
\--  
your first kiss was with your best female friend. one of them, anyway. it was summer of two thousand something and you were hot and sweaty on your bedroom floor. you had eaten at least 6 red ice pops and your mouth was slick red and tasted like cherry and artificial sweetener. her hair was longer, the blonde falling to a bit below her shoulders. her baby fat was still there and her lips were thin. you turned to her and you said, "rose. i want to make out with you." and she nodded and you missed her mouth completely and kissed her on the chin. it was the most romantic moment of your life for the next 2 years. your next kiss was with kathy in the 7th grade, and your braces got locked together. you couldn't get them unstuck and you ripped one of her brackets off. she told you that her mother was going to make you pay for that. you never paid for it. on a completely different hand, your first successful kiss was in the ninth grade with john fucking egbert. he smiled at you with those big buck teeth and you looked at him and thought, "oh. so that's a thing." and smashed your lips to his. he bit your lip and you accidentally grabbed his ass. but you were both pretty bad. and for some reason that made it so good.  
\--  
your bro has always mocked you for your lack of ass. you guess his profession gives him reason to feel that way about your spot on the sad end of the booty spectrum, but you don't need to be made fun of all the time. you're a human being. you just have no ass. your brother feels the need to therefore put a smuppet over your mouth so when you wake up you get a face full of plush rump. he films your reaction while screaming "you have no ass!" the first time he did it you cried for 45 minutes. now it's a strider family tradition.  
\--  
even rose lalonde has more meat on her bones than you. something about that screams "put on weight!" but you just can't. you eat everything in sight and you sit on the computer most hours of the day. your entire life is the internet. you run a blog, god. nearly everyone can pick you up. even john egbert who is not even 5 feet tall and weighs only a little more than you. he's chubby around the middle but that just makes him even more adorable. you? you're a fucking walking skeleton. you can see the outline of your bones through your skin. the first time you went swimming with jade, she stared at you for 5 minutes before deciding that she would wear a less revealing bathing suit. jade is a bit on the heavier side, and that's so great. that's so great and you are so not. you are so not great that somehow the packets of ramen you ingest by the day don't cause any weight gain at all. something about that is depressing.  
\--  
you can't tan. you really just can't tan. there is no tanning for you. you can say it. you can say "bro, today i'm going to get a tan." but then he'll laugh at you because you come back inside and you look like a tomato. you just don't tan. rose is lucky to get a light brown tint every summer, jade lives on the fucking west coast and turns dark brown and john is a golden god. even bro can get some version of a tan. you, however. you just. can't. the first time you sleep with him, he sucks a dark bruise into your neck and then your collarbone, and then your chest and then your stomach, your hips, your thighs. it's less arousing than you would have imagined; looking in the mirror and seeing your pale white body covered in bite marks and hickeys. in fact, you cover yourself in clothing for the next week until they fade.  
\--  
"no, dude, mine is definitely longer."  
"oh, that's funny, dave!!"  
"no, like, look, mine bends to the side a little. if it were a bit straighter i'm sure it would be-"  
"dave you're being ridiculous!! i've got a good inch or two on you! hehehe!"  
"you have at most a quarter inch on me."  
"do you want to break out a ruler and see?"  
so it turns out that he is at least an inch longer than you. you're not even at full mast, whatever. he's completely hard for some inexplicable reason and you're not about to pop a boner while looking at your best friends meat wand. not even for ironic purposes. but then you start looking at your best friend's meat wand. and you fucking twitch in your hand while you're measuring yourself. and he notices. he definitely notices. you can tell he notices because he stops ranting about how much bigger his dick is than yours, and gets eerily silent. like something happened. and he twitches against his stomach and makes a small noise and, well.  
the rest is history. (you jerked each other off frantically, your fist in your mouth and his cries pouring out of his throat. some of your cum gets in his hair and he wipes his jizz on your mouth in some effort to get you back for getting your baby batter in his hair. you try really hard not to lick your lips but you do anyway. he doesn't notice. at least you don't think so.)  
\--  
so, you fucked a guy once. it was awful. you hated the clench around you and you didn't like being in control. maybe that was why you hated sleeping with girls. you are legitimately the biggest bottom in the history of the universe. ever. you like being bent over couches with the risk of your latest conquest's roommates coming home and seeing you all wanton and shit. you like riding cock and you like having your throat fucked. you like being the bottom. you like it a lot.  
\--  
it was dark and lonely and smelt like gym socks and jock straps. it was like your own personal hell, only you weren't dead or in hell. you are in sixth grade. you are the epitome of a loser. someone shoved a magnet in your mouth before you got shoved into this locker and you don't know where it went. no one has come to get you. no one even noticed you were gone. you've given up on crying out for help. it's not like anyone is going to let you out. you are suddenly jeered out of this helpless attitude by the sound of heels clicking on the tile. it's becky fucked-everyone-in-the-school smith. you think you probably forgot to mention you're locked in the girls locker room. you cry out for help. she hears you and screams in terror before running out of the room. eventually you get out. it's all cool. it's not like you might have permanent brain damage or something from slamming into the locker door in an attempt to escape.  
\--  
it burnt. it burnt and there was a sick pig-like squelching noise and it came directly from your ass. he used too much lube but yet not enough. you squeak, giving up on composure. he pushes deep but not... in the right- ugh- direction. you squabble around on the sheets, reaching for something, anything, to hold on to. you find his back and you dig your nails into it. he cries out, ripping your hands from his back, reprimanding you. he changes angles and slams right into that special spot you found with your hand, and when you couldn't find it with your hand, the eraser end of a pencil. his hips slam against your ass over and over and over. and you. you get overwhelmed. you're not sure if he's close to coming or laughing at you when he huffs out this little puffy grunt noise. you find out he's definitely laughing at you before he pulls himself out of you, almost entirely soft and yells at you for ruining the mood with your tears. what a fucking pussy. you cry more when he leaves and cry even harder when you take one step in the morning.  
\--  
"deeper."  
somehow the idea of any deeper was a completely foreign concept to you. it may have been because you had a gag reflex. a pretty sensitive one. he pushes his hips forward and you move backwards impatiently. you're in 9th grade and he is a the quarterback on the football team. and a senior. he's trying to get into your esophagus or something because he just keeps trying to push further. it's kind of annoying, but you need the practice if you're going to be 'world champion cock sucker, dave strider'. he thrusts again and you gag. he just keeps pushing and you swear to god you're going to throw up and you make the most disgusting choked noise before he pulls himself out of your throat and jacks off onto your face. over your shades. what a fucking douchenozzle. you hear a shrill scream before turning around and seeing becky fucked-everyone-in-the-school-including-the-teachers smith through the white splashes on your glasses. she screams even louder at the sight of your face and runs for the hills. the quarterback throws five dollars at your cum splattered face and zips himself up, walking away. you are now not only 'world champion cock sucker, dave strider' but also 'world champion prostitute, dave strider'. somehow you're okay with that. five bucks is enough to buy yourself a sandwich or something.  
\--  
TT: Tell me more, Strider.  
rose lalonde is the biggest piece of shit on the face of the planet. by piece of shit you mean genius and by biggest you mean most perfect. she seemingly doesn't have a problem with your ever-changing sexual preference, and she finds joy in hearing about your failure of a sex life. she doesn't care that you once kissed her on the chin, and she doesn't care that you once had the most uncomfortable wet dream about her ever. she doesn't care when you rant about how much you like john, and she definitely doesn't care when you ask her about her progress in the book she's writing. you don't really care about that either, but whatever makes her happy. that's what's most important.  
\--  
you can shut both eyes. everyone can shut both of their eyes. shutting both of your eyes should come naturally, right? so why can every fucking one else shut one of their eyes but not the other. is there something wrong with you? should the fact that you can't do something as trivial as winking be worrisome? all of a sudden, your bro starts dating this adventurer guy with dark green eyes and tan skin and the first time you meet him he shoots you these two stupid finger guns and winks. and your stomach tosses. because you can't fucking wink. you can't close one eye and not the other. you meet john egbert and he pulls down his glasses and winks at you. rose winks at you over webcam. all of jade's fucking smiley faces have semicolon eyes and you can't stand it.  
\--  
you also can't whistle. this is an entirely different story that has to do with youtube tutorials on whistling and listening to john whistle heart and soul every night for a month over the phone until you fell asleep.  
\--  
for some reason everyone assumes you can't draw because of sweet bro and hella jeff. but that's just comedy. you can sketch a fucking eye or a nose like a pro within minutes because you are just that radical. and you're not even being ironic. it just comes naturally to you. like your ability to throw down sick beats that john can't stand. you paint john without letting him know you're doing it and you sketch rose's nose and lips and you draw jade's eyes in charcoal. you draw your bro and you draw his jungle boyfriend and you draw mom lalonde and you draw john's dad and you draw john. you draw john over and over again. one night, when john is staying over, he spills water on his shirt and he needs to borrow one. somewhere within your opening the closet and him getting the shirt, your tower of paintings and drawings and sketches of him rain down upon him. he gets flashes of blue eyes and buck teeth and plump lips and clouded expressions and he gets ever single bit of devotion that you have held from him for so long. and he turns around, surrounded by himself, and he kisses you on the mouth.  
\--  
you are dave strider and no, you don't own a copy of con air. well, yes, you do. but it's ironic. you swear you hate the movie. you hate the movie and you hate everyone who likes it. (that's a hilarious joke.) however, you don't hate cuddling up on the couch with your unironic boyfriend and kissing his cheek and chuckling at him when he cries at the final scene and watching that shitty nic cage movie. no matter how much you hate the movie. (after the first 20 times you start liking it and you don't even care when john brings up the idea of watching con air.) it's totally ironic, anyway.  
\--  
you don't know what the fuck watersports is but it sounds hardcore. like shower sex or something. you are dave strider and you are in eighth grade and... ung. shit. your hips are already stuttering. the guy is fucking the girl and this is normal. this is normal straight sex and it doesn't even matter that you're paying more attention to his dick than the girl's tits. you're totally cool. it's straight sex. it stops being only straight sex when the guy pulls his dick out of the girl and pisses all over her face. you freeze up and come hard over your hand and all over your stomach, your body seizing up and a loud scream-like moan escapes your lips. oh. so. wow.  
\--  
you are dave strider and you have a hot girlfriend. you are in ninth grade and you have a hot girlfriend and it doesn't even matter that you sucked that guy off under the bleachers a week ago. she's your girlfriend and wow is she hot. every time you get frisky with her, though, your mind flashes back to that time in eighth grade where you indirectly found out what watersports was. and your dick gets extremely hard. and she gets kind of uncomfortable but lets you rut against her thigh until you come. eventually she lets you finger her or something, and after you successfully get her off (it took a whole 30 minutes), you ask her what may possibly be the most important question in your relationship.  
"can i pee on you?"  
\--  
so, she looks disgusted when the initial words come out of your mouth. then she thinks you're joking. like, haha, dave, you're so funny. then you insist. and she punches you in the face. and kicks you out of the house. but more importantly she punches you in the fucking face. what a bitch.  
\--  
you stay at home for three days after she punches you right in the eye. there's a large purple/blue/yellow bruise surrounding your eye and you lay in bed and make your brother bring you popsicles even though your affliction doesn't have anything to do with your throat. whatever. he sits down next to you and asks you honestly if you even like girls. for some reason he isn't worried about the fact that you wanted to pee on her. he nods when you tell him your not sure and then brings you a bowl of soup. he tells me to just tell the guy i don't want him any further than my mouth next time. you still have no clue how he found out about the bleacher blowjob, but by the time you return to school, your nickname is permanently 'piss-boy'. it's cool though. you'll go out with a bang in your senior year.  
\--  
you're dave strider and your life really sucks but that's okay because you have a cute buck-toothed boyfriend, a brother with anime glasses and a jungle boyfriend, and two other best friends who mean the world to you. and you guess that's pretty cool.


End file.
